


Help me, I've grown ill.

by eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar



Category: Devil May Cry, Devil May Cry 4
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, based on my headcanon that nero's a csa survivor, it's unsuccessful but successful attempts are talked about, probably confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar/pseuds/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nero's been a monster since he was ten years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help me, I've grown ill.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so this is based off of my headcanon that nero is a csa survivor (and a mess of social anxiety), and i figured i'd write something for it!  
> brief explanation of said headcanon: basically nero kills his mother's boyfriend after years of torment, and when the holy knights got there they gave him an ultimatum: get arrested or join the military. based on canon you know which one he chose lmfao
> 
> enjoy!

     When Nero is ten, he murders someone. It's not an accident, he doesn't cry, he doesn't panic, it isn't unplanned. It is intentional, it's made to be painful, it's made to be slow. He wants to see this fucker writhe, cry, choke, vomit, _fear_  him, scream, call for help only to have no one come to save his filthy soul.

     Nero's mother has a boyfriend. Nero cannot remember his name, but when she says it, it hazes his senses like poison, like an infection. It brings back memories of fear, of nights spent alone with violation crawling under his skin, with a sickening paralyzation that prevents him from fighting back, from killing.

     But not tonight.

     Tonight, he waits like a monster in the shadows, glacier eyes piercing, ready and prepared. He faces away from the door, like he always does, and he waits. He pauses, he listens, glances at a pair of dull scissors he'd stolen from the kitchen. His eyes are dead, and he listens, straining himself to wait for those heavy footsteps, the click of the TV, the creak of his opening door and the--

     "Nero." Nero freezes, though his breathing remains even, as though he's asleep. He isn't. But someone else will be for a very long time.

     There's a sigh and a deep, low laugh, and he hears his door shut and the lock click ominously, and he's ready. He's ready, he's ready, tonight is the night where he exacts his revenge. This fucker will pay, he'll pay with his tears and his dead eyes.

     "Neeerooo," a voice croons, and Nero wants to gag. "You're not asleep, I know you're not. Get up, come show me a good time." he whispers, the weight of his knee suddenly on the side of his bed.

 

      _Oh yes_ , Nero thinks, _this will be a good time_.

     A foreign hand reeking of alcohol clasps over his mouth, shoves him on his back, stares into those blue eyes. "You're gonna be a good boy and not make noise, right? Don't wanna bother your momma."

     For the first time since this began, Nero speaks.

     "No sir," he says innocently, quietly. "I won't. I'll be good for you."

     Suddenly there are sick hands on his hips, and Nero can't breathe. His chest is tightening, he wants to cry, but he will _not_ , no more, not again, enough.

     His hand flies down to the space where his mattress meets the frame, and small hands grasp cold metal, and it's time.

     Just as soon as they'd flew down, they're back up, and connected with the man's jugular, crunching and squishing with cartilage in the way. The blades are dull, but fuck they were doing the job, and it's working, he's bleeding and he's dying and Nero _wins_. "Fuck you!" Nero's small voice screams, "Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

     Each curse brings upon another stab, another jam, another twist. Nero won't stop, he can't, he's shaking and he's getting blood on his sheets, in his mouth and in his hair, but it's so good. It's sweet, it's satisfying, it's worth it.

     He can't breathe, he can barely see through his rage and through his grief, through the violation he's endured for three years. What he can see, what he's been waiting to see, is the light leaving his torturer's eyes, watching it fade, watching his blood come up like a fountain out of the corners of his lips. The lips that hold lies, that hold vile questions, that hold cruel whispers.

     When Nero has finished, there's a hole the size of a fucking baseball in the man's neck, wide and gaping, skin hanging and tendons loose, the bone of his spine nearly visible. Oh god, it's beautiful, it's so beautiful and Nero stares at his corpse just to take it in. Take it in that he's won, that he's succeeded and that it's fucking _over_. It's over, no one will lay their hands on him again, no one will violate him and silence his screams and tears. It's done.

     Nero looks towards the door. He just has one last thing to do. He leaves the corpse dead and pale on his bed, surrounded and soaked in blood, much like Nero. But the boy takes his scissors with him, clutching them for protection, for proof.

     "Mom," he calls, voice surprisingly steady and even. He knows where his mother is-- Undoubtedly in the kitchen in a drunken stupor incapable of even getting herself to bed.

     "Wha'?" comes a response, but Nero doesn't say anything back. He steps into the kitchen, tosses the bloody, clot-covered scissors onto the grimy tile.

     "Here's the last of him." Nero's mother stares at him, the golden liquid in her dirty glass threatening to pour over the edge.

     She shrieks.

     "What the fuck?!"

     "This is your fault! You did this to me! This was you, mom! This was all your fault! You let him have me! You earned this!" Nero screams, his rage coming to a boil, spilling over. "Fuck you! Fuck him, you-- Y-You let me do this, you m-made me do this!"

      Nero's in tears now, crystalline drops paving streets on his bloody cheeks. His mother is frantic, her glass dropped and adding to the blood, the overwhelming scent of booze assaulting his nose.

     She's crying, and before Nero can blink she's out the door, likely running for a Holy Knight. Nero slides down the wall of the threshold, hair and shirt dragging a crimson streak down the drywall.

      _Oh god_ , he thinks, _what did I do?_

 

 

     When Nero is twenty-one, he repeats the action.

     This time, it's to a lover-- His lover.

     He doesn't remember why he'd been in the kitchen, nor why he'd began to shake and go blank. He doesn't remember where he'd gotten the scissors from or why he'd even gotten them in the first place. He just remembers coming to, hearing a crunch and feeling something warm on his hands, and then a cough.

     "Ow. You wanna drive those any deeper, kid?" Nero's eyes flick up to a face that he can't name at first, that he can't remember, like he's never seen him before in his life.

     When the realization strikes, Nero panics.

     " _Dante_ \--"

     Dante slides the metal out of his neck as though he were doing something as simple as taking off a coat, setting them down beside Nero. Nero stares at his hands, the blood, and his eyes snap to Dante and back again.

     He'd stabbed him. Why?

     "Look at me."

     "No."

     "Nero. C'mon."

     "No."

     "Kid--"

     "I can't!" A thick silence permeates the air, but Dante slices through it faster than it came.

     "Oh, kid," he whispers, like his heart's shattering. Dante puts his hands under Nero's, inspecting his palms. "It's okay," he confirms, "It's okay. It's just a little blood, and I'm gonna live. You impaled me once, remember that?"

     "I don't want to think about it," Nero chokes, vision blurring. No, no, no, don't panic, stop it, come on.

     "C'mere." he murmurs, pulling the younger in close, pressing his head to his shoulder. "It was an accident. I scared the shit out of you, I know. My bad."

     "I--" Nero rasps, unable to finish his sentence. He doesn't need to, though, because Dante's cutting him off with soft hushes.

     "I don't know what's wrong," Dante breathes, "But I'm here. And I gotcha, okay? You're mine. And I like to keep an eye on what's mine."

     "I know," Nero nods, "I know."


End file.
